


you malfunctioning refrigerator

by the_garbage_will_do



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Actors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comedy, Innuendo, M/M, Mental Health Issues, related partly to body image and exercise, snoke is a homophobic manipulative jerk, this story is inspired by john oliver and last week tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24484381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_garbage_will_do/pseuds/the_garbage_will_do
Summary: “Shatter my carpals, you tank. Sliver my heartstrings, you enigmatic monument.”As a running gag on his late-night comedy show, Hux hits shamelessly and hopelessly on the film star Ben Solo. He doesn't realize that Ben's listening, every single time.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Snoke & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 74
Kudos: 254





	you malfunctioning refrigerator

**Author's Note:**

> While this story deals with entirely fictional characters, the premise is inspired by John Oliver, a late-night comedian who [frequently mentions](https://kyloren.tumblr.com/post/191003288966/last-week-tonight-with-john-oliver-7x02-february) Adam Driver. I borrow the phrasing of "you [unexpected adjective] [unexpected large noun]" from John Oliver's show, as well as the "is this sexual or violent" line.

“You really _are_ as big as a fridge.”

Ben has heard plenty of comments on his size– big ears, monolithic nose, clumsy knees that bang on things, like there’s too _much_ of him on every conceivable axis. However there’s an edge of genuine shock in Rey’s voice, though they’ve already shot one-and-a-half movies together, that makes him take notice.

“A minifridge, maybe.”

“Your _chest,”_ she counters with growing eagerness, “is the size of a minifridge.”

“Uh…” He lets out a little chuckle, fidgeting. “Thanks?”

She starts, as if roused from a reverie, and begins chuckling nervously too. “It’s not a bad thing, it’s just a...a thing. Today.”

Ben Solo looks down at himself. No, he’s pretty sure his measurements have always been this abnormal.

“Oh god.” Rey’s facial muscles work overtime, now morphing into horror. “You don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“...It’s nothing.”

.

It’s not nothing.

Instead, according to a Google search for “Ben Solo” and “fridge,” _it_ is a 25-second clip posted just hours ago on YouTube, from a late show that aired last night.

From _The Starkiller Show._

Ben closes his eyes, takes three meditative breaths for sixteen counts each, and clicks on the link.

It seems to be a standard late-night comedian’s monologue. Perhaps a little esoteric in its subject matter– most comedians don’t rely on the inner workings of the U.S. Department of Transportation for laughs– but that doesn’t surprise Ben.

“So now the rest of her team’s been fired,” soliloquizes the host, “and Amilyn Holdo is expected to steer this metaphorical Titanic solo. Which is completely unacceptable, as the only unexpected solo that can save any situation is Ben Solo.”

The graphic on the side of the screen– previously a dignified head shot of Amilyn Holdo, Deputy Secretary of Transportation– is suddenly replaced by a picture of Ben Solo. It’s a shot from last year’s disastrous Cannes red carpet, when Ben let the soreness push him into a slouch and his mouth refused to smile, no matter how he contorted it. His manager, Snoke, had lectured him for three days afterwards, because if there was a Prince Charming out there Ben on the red carpet was the furthest you could get. According to Snoke, he’d instead done a perfect impression of an ogre–

“Pulverize my spine, you rampaging bull.”

It’s a sufficiently rapid turn that Ben forgets his hand-wringing. Forgets Cannes.

“Steam me up, you malfunctioning refrigerator.”

Ben forgets everything.

Then the monologue returns promptly to the agency scandal, as Ben gapes, jaw hanging, eyes bugging out of his head.

.

When Ben Solo’s soul returns to his body, he’s keenly aware of three facts.

First, the host and head writer of _The Starkiller Show_ is Armitage Hux. Objectively speaking, he’s a ginger with a pinched, peaky face and a life-threatening addiction to hair gel, who makes his living off being a posh and particularly articulate troll on national TV. Subjectively speaking, he’s a brilliant, incisive satirist with a talent for picking targets, analyzing them and demolishing them with ruthless efficiency. He honed his craft as a teenager on Youtube before the stand-up career, before the fame and the TV deal. 

Second, Armitage Hux was Ben Solo’s first “celebrity” crush. Back in Hux’s YouTube days, Ben had swallowed down those feelings, had held his breath and hoped they might all go away, and he had comforted himself with the knowledge that it was hopeless, because Armitage Hux would never have any clue who Ben Solo was. Unfortunately, thanks to his own fame and the _Moon Wars_ three-movie deal, his anonymity is in tatters. More unfortunately, after one look at Armitage Hux staring down the camera like he can’t decide whether to kill or kiss it, Ben’s stupid crush is anything _but_ dead _._

(An odd aside: the late-night show’s called “Starkiller” because that’s what Hux does, that’s the truest advertisement for his slash-and-burn, take-no-prisoners style of ridicule. He lives to tear down stars, and yet there’s nothing cruel in how he’s treated Ben. Some lechery, but nothing cruel.)

Third, Snoke is going to blow a gasket.

.

“It’s an attack on decency, the things this man says,” seethes Snoke. Even over FaceTime, Ben can see the spittle flying.

Against habit and common sense, he interrupts. “He’s allowed to express his sexuality–”

 _“His_ sexuality is not the issue,” Snoke says, rolling right over him. “That flamboyance is part of his brand, it does no damage to him. But the insult to you!”

(Having now watched that clip fifteen times, Ben feels many things, a confusing storm of reactions rushing through his head. “Insulted” is not one of them.)

“It’s dangerous, what he’s implied about you.”

“He...didn’t imply anything. It’s a joke–”

“He _implied_ the image of you...steaming him up. The character you play– Kylo Ren– and the persona of Ben Solo you play in real life, they are fragile. Made up of associations in the audience’s mind. Your marketability comes from the archetype of the alpha, from being perceived as heterosexual beyond question. But now,” he moans, voice colored through with rue, “no matter how we fight it, some members of the audience will forever link you to Armitage Hux.”

Ben’s traitorous head seizes on that for a moment, the image of himself linked eternally to Armitage Hux. He tells it to shut up. Refocuses on absorbing Snoke’s market insight.

.

Ben starts watching _The Starkiller Show._ He doesn’t mean to, not with his pre-dawn call times and the auditions for his next role, with the daily hours in the gym to fashion himself into something halfway presentable. But he’s been pushed away from the weights again– Phasma threw out enough warnings about “overtraining” and “rhabdomyolysis” to wear even Snoke down– and that means empty hours on the treadmill. 

He scouts out a spot that’s got a clear view of the gym doors without being too close, so if Snoke walks in he has time to switch to another app, something responsible, email or PDFs of scripts for future projects, and he starts watching _The Starkiller Show._

For weeks, Hux says nothing more about Ben; such a mundane subject could hardly hold his interest for long. Instead he delves into the bureaucracy of the 5G arms race, and a virtual economic collapse sparked by a video game glitch, and a very real technological crisis sparked by a runaway virus, in turn sparked by another video game glitch. It’s a constellation of topics Ben didn’t care about before he watched, but Hux’s delivery fascinates him. Ben doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the winding structure of the monologues, at first seemingly random until all his points collide in one fiery climax. Perhaps it’s the passion of his tirades, funny and relentless and petty and dignified, all at the same time. He orates like a general rousing his troops for battle, even when he’s just railing against players who violate the apparently strict social protocol of Minecraft.

Perhaps it’s the sharply cut suit, or the little smirk that peeks out when he lands a particularly cutting jab. Perhaps it’s the elegant accent, or the eyes that pierce and shift between emerald and a stormy grey–

Ben finishes each workout with a racing heart, skin flushed from face to chest. He attributes it entirely to the exercise.

.

Ben wouldn’t mind if he abruptly vanished into thin air.

He did thirty takes of an action scene today, a classic _Moon Wars_ set piece with the sabers and pyrotechnics and twenty combatants in an intricately choreographed ballet, and the orders of the director and the stunt coordinator had warred with Snoke’s commands in Ben’s head. Ben was off-beat and off-balance, he kept swinging too wide and dipping out of frame, and when he got caught up in the passion of the scene, he caught a stuntwoman in the ribs with a flailing punch that should never have made contact. And though she swore it was her misstep, not his, he can’t get Snoke’s voice out of his head. He showers and hurls himself into bed and puts on _Starkiller,_ and it fades to white noise behind the repeating diatribe in Snoke’s voice that he’s _weak_ , he’s too soft and imprecise, he’s clumsy as a three-year-old and always too _much–_

“...complete with mystery punch in America’s precious red Solo cups. Which is ridiculous, because the only Solo that ought to inspire universal thirst is _Ben Solo.”_

In an instant, Ben’s anguish yields to curiosity, and he scrambles to grab the phone from where he flung it on the carpet. The side graphic has the damn picture of him at Cannes again, but Ben can’t care, not when Hux has settled back in his chair and lifted his chin in what might just be his “come-hither” look.

The audience laughs raucously, and Ben can’t blame them. Him, a sex symbol? It’s a perfect joke.

Yet Hux manages to deliver his next lines with utter seriousness: “Shatter my carpals, you tank. Sliver my heartstrings, you enigmatic monument.”

Once Ben recovers from the abrupt sense of disembodiment, he rewinds and gives all his attention to Hux, concentrating even harder than usual. There must be some insult here. Some jibe he missed last time, a hidden blade folded inside this punchline.

But no matter how he slices the two comedy bits, no matter how long he trawls through the hellpit of the YouTube comment section, he can’t find an alternate interpretation, nothing but the obvious take. On some level– strictly intellectual, Ben hasn’t taken leave of his senses– Armitage Hux considers him hilariously attractive. Ben holds some slight appeal for him, not in spite of but _because_ of all his absurd excess. 

And against his will, even as he can hear Snoke fuming in his head, Ben feels a little better about himself.

.

Ben sits in Snoke’s office and stares at a magazine with himself on the cover. The photographer is Rose Tico, an artist with an uncanny talent for finding beauty in the unlikeliest places, so perhaps Ben shouldn’t be surprised that she managed to make him look so...unlike himself.

(But he is.)

Though Rose swore she’d go light on the Photoshop, his face looks almost beautiful. His cheeks and lips are suffused with color, and the coils of his hair _gleam,_ and the shadows lend the odd angles of his face a harmony not their own. And somehow, by some trick of the light she kept his eyes from looking how they usually do, lost and pitiful or just dim-witted. No, his gaze could pass for “intensely soulful,” if he really squinted.

“We won’t work with her again,” remarks Snoke.

Ben’s eyes flick up. He should just nod, pretend he’s been thinking the same thing. He shouldn’t admit his naivete, the fact that he’s once again missed whatever’s concerning Snoke.

“Why?” Ben says.

And though he knows it’s coming, it stings when his manager issues a disbelieving scoff. “For the roles that pay, this look won’t do. So...polished.”

He sneers the word, and Ben nearly asks, isn’t that what they’ve been going for all along. It seems like it’s his _lack_ of polish that causes most of his issues, his innate childlike brutishness.

He takes another look at the curl of Snoke’s lip and wonders if he doesn’t really mean “polished” at all.

“That Hux is almost right,” Snoke mutters to himself, as he casually tosses the magazine into his trash.

Ben’s fallen behind on _Starkiller._ The press for the next _Moon Wars_ is grinding him down and Snoke’s unhappy all the time and that means _Ben’s_ unhappy all the time. There’s a parade of journalists who have to look happy to see him all day, and they all know it’s a lie, Ben knows he’s just the troll they have to pass before they get to the real stars, and still he talks too often and rambles for too long. They ask a superficial question about the role and it sets him off, and suddenly he’s neck-deep in an incoherent, utterly pretentious monologue about the research and the symbolism and the “craft _._ ” And no matter how many times Snoke reminds him that the journalists haven’t got either interest in or time for his posturing, he can’t shut up. 

The poor journalists just want a smile and a snazzy quote short enough to fit a tweet or headline. Ben can’t provide either.

When he makes it back to his hotel room, he’s too close to dead to survive an entire episode. Instead he Googles “Ben Solo Armitage Hux,” decidedly ignoring the one work of fanfiction that pops up, and finds a YouTube clip. It’s a recent post, uploaded just two hours ago and titled “All Armitage Hux Thirst For Ben Solo.” 

Ben rolls his eyes and starts it. 

The first two clips are familiar, more familiar than he’d like to admit. But then comes a new segment, cutting in halfway through a sentence, and Ben almost feels _bad_ that the poster did such violence to Hux’s work.

“Now, do I actually care about a fictional fox selling fictional fake art– to be distinguished from fictional real art– to very real dullards? No. No, I do not. There is only one piece of art that I ordinarily dedicate any thought to, and that would be...Ben Solo.”

On cue, the side graphic displays Ben’s face, but Hux has at last abandoned the picture from Cannes. Instead he flashes the new cover photo for all of America to see.

“We can _all_ agree this face...belongs to the modern art tradition. It’s controversial, many people find more aesthetic value in the average kindergartener’s finger painting, and even I cannot possibly explain to you how all that..works.” He waves vaguely towards the graphic, and his audience laughs, and though the self-loathing ought to spike even _Ben_ laughs. “That does not preclude me from arguing that it’s a voluptuous _masterpiece,_ he deserves his own museum, and I’ll happily give his face the Jackson Pollock treatment any day of the week.”

Hux pauses there, index finger pointed emphatically at the camera, a tiny smile twitching at his lips. Ben can’t guess why. Not until a possible innuendo hits him and he flushes bright red.

A couple audience members must trip down the same gutter, because a new wave of tittering creeps up. Yet Hux cuts them off before it all gets too uncomfortable: “And the rest of him is Classical perfection, with a capital C. Bash in my kneecaps, you marble god. Disintegrate my skull, you staggering colossus.”

And Hux is back to normal, though how those last two sentences can pass for normal escapes all comprehension. And though a few minutes back he was too weary to breathe, Ben can’t stop his giggling.

.

The _Moon Wars_ premiere passes without international incident, and the movie’s gorgeous and even his performance couldn’t drag it down. Ben rewards himself that night with the latest episode of _Starkiller._ It’s on a lawsuit over motorcycle design flaws, that odd no-man’s-land between bug and feature. It’s an insightful analysis of the constraints of a brand’s power and the dangers of clinging to one single mold.

Hux tacks on a few personal thoughts on “riding solo.”

.

Han Solo was in New York, a few hours back.

Ben’s in New York for auditions, and for the last three days he’s been buried with his scripts inside Snoke’s apartment. Though he ought to be thankful for a rent-free penthouse in the middle of Manhattan, the place is half-palace and half-jail, musty and dark and suffocating with endless red velvet upholstery. And though Ben swore he wouldn’t leave the building until he finished memorizing the audition scenes, he _can’t_ memorize in this cave. He’s so large in such a small airless space, there’s too much of him and he can _barely breathe,_ and he keeps tripping on the fancy rugs and breaking antique trinkets that must be worth more than he is. 

He’s had three theatrical meltdowns in the past three days, and none of them will help prepare him for any of his potential roles.

But Han Solo stopped by. He stopped by to see Ben, and a phone call from Snoke in LA sent him away again, and Ben didn’t find out until he went down to the lobby to just get a glimpse of sunlight. He should have known Han was here but didn’t, not until he overheard the doorman gossiping about a loiterer in a jacket so old it bypassed “vintage” and raced straight to “ancient relic.” 

(A loiterer who tried smooth-talking the doorman into letting him in for ten minutes, badgered him for another ten minutes, attempted to bribe him with a hundred-dollar bill, and only abandoned his mission after cops got called.)

And now Ben’s back inside and punching Snoke’s number into his phone though he knows it’s a mistake and demanding an explanation, like he has the right.

(A little voice whispers that he’s still Han Solo’s son. If anyone has the right to decide if he sees Han, it’s him.)

“Think through the implications.” Snoke sounds wearily tolerant, too used to dealing with a truly hopeless fool. “The headlines, if you were seen with an ex-convict–”

“Wouldn’t they understand?” Ben tries. “I’m not involved, he’s just my _dad–"_

“You think you’d stay that way? You think he came back out of some genuine paternal affection? That Han Solo is anything but a leech, using you for your money or your fame, to dig himself a new pit and drag you in after him?”

It doesn’t ring true. Snoke is wise and knowledgeable, and he’s Ben’s only defense against the users and manipulators who prowl the film industry. But he doesn’t know Han. Though Han spins a million plots against a million targets, Ben’s never been one of them.

“You’re so innocent,” Snoke croons, as if he can read Ben’s mind. “Your hope springs eternal.”

He leaves Ben alone again in the crushing dark, with odd thoughts skittering through his head.

(Thoughts of rebellion.)

.

“Because once you _have_ got a corpse on your hands, rolling it in a plush shag carpet is a traditional and surprisingly classy method of disposal,” remarks Hux. “Though for the record, to the many people who no doubt fantasize about my murder, there’s only one way I’m getting suffocated in anything shag-related...and that is if Ben Solo’s involved. Now, as an aside, some of you on Twitter have asked, ‘Is your interest in Ben Solo sexual? Or is it just violent?’ The answer is decidedly, ‘Yes.’ Flatten my windpipe, you regal mammoth. Mangle my tonsils, you unstoppable rocket.”

Ben’s just won a role Snoke vowed he’d never get– a radar technician in a war drama, a period film, the sort of project that hogs Oscar attention– and Armitage Hux just called him ‘an unstoppable rocket,’ and the fireworks in Ben’s heart might never stop soaring again.

.

It’s been two hours since the Emmys finished. 

Ben is enormously conspicuous in his tux, and normally he’d panic at a party where everyone’s sneaking glances his way. He reels the terror back in this time, because there’s a perfectly innocuous reason for their interest. After all, he just won an Emmy for hosting SNL.

Snoke didn’t congratulate him. He simply texted Ben a mile-long list of rings to kiss, directors and producers to cozy up to tonight. Snoke holds that victories mean nothing by themselves, that they’re worthless unless exploited. But Ben saw a flash of red hair when he first entered this afterparty and promptly forgot the entire list. 

Unfortunately, even in such close proximity, it proves difficult to track Hux down. Ben catches sight of him every few minutes, yet Hux always fades into a crowd or ducks down a different hallway, slipping through his fingers. Almost like he’s avoiding Ben.

After the fifth near-miss, Ben’s positive that’s the case. Hux hasn’t done a “Ben Solo” joke since spring. Maybe he got tired of Ben. Or maybe he never was really interested in Ben at all, just playing to his audience until he’d beaten the gag to death. 

Maybe all the seeming pick-up lines really were just punchlines, with an emphasis on the “punch.”

But Ben’s talking to his dad again, after one too many missed connections, and he’s even exchanged a couple emails with his mom. He won’t leave another wound to fester, unacknowledged.

So he follows Hux outdoors onto a shadowy garden terrace, stops a respectful distance away and calls down the pathway.

“Are you upset with me?”

He’s not too loud. Hux can pretend not to hear if he wants.

Hux stops, the shadowy outline of his spine too tense, and then wheels around.

“Upset?” he deadpans. “Why would I be upset? I’m simply trying to avoid a lawsuit for breathing in your vicinity.”

He punctuates the statement with a dramatic lift of the arms, and Ben frowns. Takes a few steps closer, because while he doesn’t see anyone else nearby he doesn’t really want to holler this conversation.

“...Why would you ever be sued for that?”

Hux snorts and cocks his head to the side. Ben can see his whole face up-close, the wrinkles and shadows which get airbrushed over for the show. Suddenly, Ben can’t think straight.

“You made it very clear you didn’t appreciate my attention,” Hux answers, viciously neutral.

But his straight face cracks a second later, hurt flickering across his brow, and Ben can’t think of anything to say.

So he goes for the truth. “I never minded your attention. Your monologues are all...beautiful.”

Ben breathes that last word, trying to infuse it with everything Hux has ever made him feel.

Hux only gawks back. He looks confused and dumbstruck, he looks like _Ben_ looked, when he watched Hux’s first refrigerator bit.

When he finally emits a sound, it’s half-strangled. “But your manager…”

Though he trails off, three simultaneous revelations strike.

First, Snoke shut down Hux’s running gag. Ben can guess exactly the rhetoric he used, the phrasing, the silent and cutting subtext. Ben’s intimately familiar with those insinuations, since Snoke’s spent years directing those insinuations at _him._

Second, he’s stayed quiet and swallowed Snoke’s poison for years. But there’s another flicker in Hux’s expression, the deadpan shield fractured ever so slightly. There’s a tear that wavers in Hux’s eye for just one second, and Snoke put it there, and Ben cannot stand for it.

Third, Ben knows what he needs to do.

“I’ll fire him,” he says with a shrug, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Hux flinches. He stammers half a word before cutting himself off. Then he takes another step towards Ben.

“Beautiful?” he drawls.

“I especially liked the Jackson Pollock line,” Ben replies, chuckling.

Hux freezes again before melting into a groan.

“I’m sorry for the rude jokes.” He sighs theatrically. “The trouble was, if I started talking about your acting, or your dedication to the craft, or the fact that you actually give thoughtful answers in your interviews instead of just spewing someone else’s script...I’d never shut up again. I’d roll through all my commercial breaks, and the advertisers would wind up displaying my head on a pike.”

“You like my interviews,” Ben intones.

“...I like your interviews,” Hux admits through gritted teeth.

“I liked your old YouTube channel,” Ben retorts, because if they’re competing to embarrass themselves he won’t be outdone. Hux starts to sputter, but Ben barrels on because he’s unstoppable right now, because some unnamable hope’s springing hot and gleeful in his head. “I like how you engineer your speeches, and I mean that, ‘engineer,’ you’re so careful and you notice the little things and you draw connections no one else could. And I like your phrasing and your timing. I like it when you keep a straight face and I like it more when you crack. I like...” Unable to finish that sentence, he pauses, leaving Hux time to run if it’s all too much.

If he’s too much.

Hux stays.

“Why’d you start the jokes?” asks Ben.

Hux visibly swallows, the hollows of his cheeks rippling as he composes his thoughts. “There’s a certain safety in only pursuing the unattainable. There’s no surprise when you inevitably fail.”

He declares it with utter certainty and parchingly dry wit, but Ben frowns.

“‘Inevitably’’s a little...strong, right?”

He scoffs. “I’ve built my entire life around being excessively loud, nitpicky and generally insufferable on TV. I don’t exactly have hordes of people chasing me down and declaring their love.”

“...not hordes, maybe.”

Ben doesn’t know what to do next. It’s still possible, however unlikely, that this is all one massive joke at his expense. There’d be a certain safety in retreating, in assuring Hux once more that there won’t be any lawsuits– at least from Ben’s corner– and fleeing back into the crowds.

Instead he jerks forward, grabs Hux’s hand, and lifts it, pressing it slowly to his own lips. He lifts his eyes to revel in Hux’s gorgeous, blossoming smile.

He waits.

When Hux speaks again, his smile is still gentle and sweet, but there’s just a bit of mischief in his voice.

“Buy me dinner,” he murmurs, “you gigantic, Byronic darling.”


End file.
